Year Two: Yellow Eyes
The physician examined his patient with gentle forehooves, each move executed with care. The stallion had made his appointment reluctantly, angrily barking at the receptionist for misspelling his legal name and politely asking for a timeframe. Heeding his assistant’s warning, Doctor Triage treated this patient particularly carefully.
The blue stallion with a jet-black mane complained of proliferating pains in his side, random itching, digestive trouble, memory problems and, above all, general malaise. It wasn’t difficult, Doctor Triage observed silently as he ran the patient through the usual barrage of tests, to discern why.
Bernie Madhoof’s eyes were completely yellow.
“Now, please, Mr. Madhoof, if you could just lie down on your back on the table for me,” directed the doctor. He gestured towards a typical physician’s examination table, eliciting a scowl from the patient, his muzzle trembling with poorly masked rage.
Bernie barked, “Why? Can’t you just tell me what’s wrong without fondling me?”
Doctor Triage stifled a laugh. Most stallions beyond their colthood were more than a little apprehensive at another male (even one with a medical license) hovering above them while they laid in such a submissive pose. Modesty, however, needed to be disregarded for this particular office visit.
If Doctor Triage was correct in his assumptions, embarrassment would be the least of his patient’s concerns. The stallion needed to conduct one last test to confirm his fledgling diagnosis.
“Mr. Madhoof, I assure you, this is completely necessary. I need to feel above your internal organs to make sure nothing is enlarged or inflamed. To make sure nothing is damaged in your body. Doing so requires that you lie back, relax, and let me do my work. Okay?”
“Bah! Nothing is wrong with my insides, you pervert!”
Sighing, the doctor countered, “Well, if nothing is wrong, why are you here at my clinic, then, Mr. Madhoof?” Drumming a hoof on the examination table, the stallion waited in silence for his counterpart to muster a good excuse. Patient came to doctor in search of assistance; that fact could not be denied, even if the patient swore upon all below that it was a lie.
Bernie Madhoof’s gaze alighted upon various accolades and degrees adorning Doctor Triage’s office. The Earth pony physician had graduated summa cum laude from the finest medical university in Trottingham. Lacking magic from any source other than the ground, Earth ponies were a gamble in the realm of healing. Surgery was far too complex for clumsy forehooves to tackle. Other specialties, however, remained open to all ponies, and the stallion who stood before him was one of the finest in general practice. His accomplishments in the face of his inherited adversity made him that much more esteemed.
Unable to defy the logic tossed cruelly towards him, Madhoof grudgingly hopped up onto the doctor’s table, staring straight up at the ceiling. “Hurry it up. I have business to attend to,” he said with a scowl.
Nodding, allowing a slight smirk to escape and find his muzzle, the doctor trotted over to his patient. The stallion arched his back into the cold, steel table, breathing deeply through his nostrils. Absolutely disgusted by his vulnerability, Bernie Madhoof let his thoughts wander to present and future dreams of glory and power.
The departure of his “dearly beloved” foals and wife blessed and cursed the founder and owner of Orange Enterprises. His wallet and bank account sighed with relief at the removal of his three burdens. However, there was a strange, haunting void within his soulless form. This void seemed omnipresent, unwilling to retreat from him no matter what solution he sought.
Mares in the night distracted him only so much, unable to kiss away his sorrows. He tried to lose himself in the tango of corporate-speak, attending endless meetings and conferences. He’d hired several assistants and accountants to handle the more technical matters his sniveling wife had deserted. Due to the efforts of Manehatten’s finest financial gurus—falling to his hindhooves in gratitude for the opportunity to serve him—King Orange reigned from on high with exponentially growing power.
Competitors began to fall by the wayside. Others waved their white flags in surrender, quietly acquired by his corporation or folding their cards at the table. Nopony could match his vastness, his influence, his prowess in the game of bits.
Soon, he would control the entire orange industry in Equestria, if Fate smiled upon him once more.
Still, in spite of his victories, the void did not swallow itself and disappear into the darkness. It continued to consume him, gnawing, nibbling, devouring his consciousness. He felt a strange sort of sadness, a feeling that led him to believe he was falling into madness.
Bernie Madhoof drank. He drank twice to three times as much as he had when Libra, Citrus, and that wretched bobtail filly had sullied his floorboards. He lost himself in drink after drink, bottle after bottle, sin after sin, all of them stretching and combining into one endless glass.
It was never enough.
King Orange groaned as the physician prodded his left side with iron-clad forehooves. “Dammit! Stop that!” He pulled up his hindhooves in defense and rolled onto his stomach.
“Mr. Madhoof, I am merely examining your liver,” Doctor Triage said calmly.
Rage beginning to announce its presence by means of his kidneys (those organs aching as the demonic stallion began to stomp on them, too) sending his adrenaline, Madhoof yelled, “No, you’re not! You’re crushing it!!”
Retracting from his patient, Doctor Triage could restrain his glee no more. He grinned, rows and rows of molars white and chuckling.
“What’s so funny, you molesting ingrate?!” King Orange squirmed from his submission and leapt from the torture device. All four hooves meeting the cold tile of the “doctor’s” office, the wealthiest stallion in Manehatten took a menacing step towards his adversary. “I ought to have you arrested for assault, you brute!”
With a knowing smile, Doctor Triage asked, “So, how much do you drink, Mr. Madhoof?”
“That’s none of your business!!”
“Oh, I believe it is,” replied the physician. He grasped a clipboard from a nearby counter top and flipped through several pages of paperwork. “Because,” he began, double-checking his entries on the parchment, “all of our tests so far have pointed to that being the cause of your illness. The last test we could perform to confirm beyond all doubt would be a liver biopsy. But, at this point, I think I can diagnose you without having to go to such extreme—“
“Biopsy?! Nopony is going to lay their filthy magic on me!” The sadism that this white-coated demon displayed defied all reason or rationality. Madhoof couldn’t believe the trickster’s nerve. Steam began to rise from Bernie Madhoof’s hooves—or was that merely a mirage, like so many other broken images had been?
That line between real and unreal increasingly blurred as Doctor Triage snapped back, “And nopony would want to, with a patient like you!”
Pressing his muzzle against the sadist’s, Bernie hissed, “How dare you!”
“How dare I? How dare I?! You are the one who scheduled this appointment, Mr. Madhoof! You are the one who came to me for help! And, here you are, disrespecting me, defiling my office with your nonsense, practically threatening me with arrest because I examined you!”
This doctor, accustomed to patients of all stripes—male, female, young, middle-aged, elderly, friendly or vicious—possessed no more patience for this wreck of a stallion. Breaking their angry connection, the physician decreed, “If you don’t stop drinking, Mr. Madhoof, you will not make it past this year! I guarantee it!”
King Orange felt his jaw unhinge. In pure, utter, sick shock, he retreated as well—reasoning that it was not true submission if the other stallion backed away first—and stammered, “Y-y-you’re out of your mind! I’m fine!”
“No, you aren’t! Mr. Madhoof, the reason it hurt so much when I touched your left side wasn’t because of anything I have done.” Doctor Triage lifted an accusatory forehoof towards his shocked patient.
Ignoring the weak stutters issued from the stallion’s fetid maw, the physician elaborated, “Your liver is enlarged, inflamed. Your itching, digestion problems, fatigue, memory loss, and your eyes all point to one thing: cirrhosis. And unless you happen to have a rare genetic disorder, or caught one of the more gnarly forms of hepatitis from somepony, I bet all my degrees on the wall that it is because of alcohol.
“Isn’t it, Mr. Madhoof?”
Overflowing trash cans of liquor bottles. Bottles in his desk drawers, both in his tower and his mansion. Draughts of beer, tall glasses of cider, shots of whiskey. Liquid flame, fire-water, escape and relief. Bernie Madhoof felt the tile under his hooves begin to shake… or, perhaps, that was the trembling of his own limbs.
Smiling, the doctor hissed, “I thought so.”
The silence went unchallenged.
Doctor Triage pulled up a stool and sat on his haunches. He waited, a minute at first, then two, then three, the sound of his patient’s internal gears whirring and churning with dread music to his ears. Normally, Triage was a kind, compassionate soul, and held many a weeping or frightened stallion, mare, or foal in his hooves with gentle comfort. He directed them all through the thicket of their diagnosis, charting their path to recovery, offering hope and light.
When it came to Bernie Madhoof, Doctor Triage couldn’t bring himself to sympathize. The most well-known stallion in Manehatten was also the most stubborn, irrational, vicious patient he’d ever encountered. He deserved no sympathy, brought to this edge by his own foolishness.
Sweat dripping down his thick nape and dampening his mane, King Orange questioned his smug subject, “What can be done, then? Perhaps a… a transplant?” Sick, weak fear and shame trembled through his words.
The physician shook his muzzle. “No. Not yet, at least. You are going down a dark road, Mr. Madhoof, but you have not quite reached that extent. Liver transplantation, even with our best unicorn surgeons, is an extremely risky procedure. We do not have much medicine for your ill, either. It doesn’t appear as if you’ve developed any infections yet, though your immune system is bound to be compromised. Antibiotics will not be needed. However, I advise that you examine your diet. You will need it. No, the most I can do right now is prescribe an antihistamine for your itching.”
“Allergy medication?! That’s all you can offer me?”
“Well… yes, Mr. Madhoof. I cannot control you. I cannot take the bottle from your forehooves,” the doctor said flatly. “I am merely a physician, not a psychologist or an addiction specialist. I can’t make you stop. Only you can make yourself stop.”
Void. Darkness. Numbness. Emptiness. Bernie Madhoof’s mind protested loudly, screaming within the safety of his consciousness. Stop? The stallion knew not the meaning of the word. He had made friends with the yeast for over twenty years now, though their friendship had become far more involved as of late. To contemplate abandoning that dearly beloved companion sent waves of anxiety proliferating through his veins. He could not comprehend it.
He’d thought his eyes were becoming gold, the color of bits and meaning. Now, he shuddered at the sadistic physician’s revelation—that the yellow was a sign of decay, the beginning of the end. He was King Orange, ruler of all, and here he was… rotting from the inside out.
It just wasn’t fair.
“Doctor… please… forgive me,” he muttered, stumbling over his words as they caressed his tongue. “Please… I’m sorry, I… I had no idea. Please, I can’t be sick. I won’t be sick. Surely, there must be something else you can do! Anything!”
If Doctor Triage had been a lesser stallion, he would have pressed for fine sums, towers of gold, exploiting his pleas to the hilt. Fortunately for Bernie Madhoof, Triage was not that kind of stallion.
All promises Triage could make, however, would be empty. The physician knew not the throes of addiction, and sent prayers from his soul up to the Most High that he never would. He was staring into the abyss now, and it stared back at him, raving and desperate.
“Mr. Madhoof, there is nothing I can do,” he said solemnly. “Your fate is in your hooves now. If you continue to drink alcohol—at all—you risk aggravating your liver and furthering the damage. At this point, it can no longer properly metabolize the poison you send its way. We can do nothing to remove the scar tissue. No doctor can, even a unicorn. A transplant is unnecessary at this point, and even if it weren’t, it’s quite a gamble. Your body doesn’t exactly welcome strange organs without some coaxing, you see.
“Mr. Madhoof, if you hope to live much longer, you must sober up. Now.”
King Orange swallowed the lump in his throat. He never would be as thirsty for the familiar kiss of liquor as he was in that moment.
Gathering his clipboard and paperwork, Doctor Triage finished, “The bill for this visit should arrive in a few weeks, Mr. Madhoof, once it has been processed through your insurance. Your insurance also covers psychological treatment and addiction specialists if I remember correctly, Mr. Madhoof. I suggest you take a look into that.”
“Y-yes… Doctor… thank you…” he said, reduced to shambles.
Doctor Triage nodded somberly and exited the office, leaving Bernie Madhoof to mourn the choice that lay before him.
King Orange flopped down to his haunches and debated the demons within his mind until the rapping of hooves on the door thrust him from the empty office. There was another patient to be seen, another victim of Fate awaiting his punishment.
~
All of his trash cans were full to the brim. His mansion never felt so empty.
The assistants had their hooves busy and occupied, searching through every possible hiding-place where their master could have stashed a bottle in his intoxication. They’d exchanged worried glances amongst themselves at his edict, but obeyed nonetheless. All liquor in Master Orange’s mansion was to be tossed out, and all alcohol was forbidden forevermore from his dwelling. Bottles upon bottles met their end in the garbage receptacles outside the mansion’s gates.
Though his assistants had families and homes of their own, they could not abandon their employer’s side, and did all that was asked of them. Reduced to servant status, they cursed their task (such worthless manual labor was below them) but not their commander. Master Orange was a wise stallion, and, surely, he acted only in the best interests of all.
Finally, the sun fading its last light, his assistants departed from his iron gates, leaving the stallion all alone. They’d whispered their gratitude, honored to be taking out his trash.
Bernie Madhoof had a pleasant chuckle at that.
The decision had been the most difficult one he’d ever made. Libra’s treachery (and his subsequent handling of that mess) seemed ridiculous in comparison to the trouble that hung over him now. His very body was betraying him, weak and useless.
No matter. Bernie Madhoof—King Orange—was strong and quick of mind. Though it shattered him in all his broken places, he’d decided to leave his best friend and companion for higher ground, higher purpose. Where would Manehatten be without its glorious leader? Not to mention that Orange Enterprises, his pride and joy, would be left to some underling’s filthy hooves if he passed.
No, the king was just beginning his reign, and needed to heal his sick body.
There would be no more. Not one drop, not one sip, not one lick or drink or final toast. There would only be juice, orange juice. Orange juice brought him fame and fortune, and it would heal him now, restoring the vigor of his youth.
King Orange sat in his throne room now, hindhooves on mahogany, a fine cigar hanging lazily from his lips. The doctor hadn’t said a word about smoking, after all. He indulged in the purest tobacco, lighting it with a match until it glowed cherry-red. The king blew smoke rings while he contemplated his next plan of action.
Leaving behind a best friend was always difficult. Liquor would miss him so, and he would agonize over their parting of ways for days, months, years to come. It would never be the same without his old friend.
This urgent lifestyle change, coupled with the team of accountants and assistants who handled his paperwork, left the stallion with significant free time. He pondered the possibilities, considering various hobbies to occupy his hours, as he took deep drag after deep drag, until his cigar was no more.
Suddenly, King Orange’s pupils drifted over to a dusty chess set folded up in a secure carrying case on a bookshelf across the room, and he found his answer.
Chess. The game of all true kings.
Rising from his luxurious, plush chair, Bernie Madhoof closed the distance between himself and the object of his desire, taking the game’s carrying case into his forehooves. He strode back over to the desk, snapping open the case and removing the chessboard. Marveling at the expertly-painted black-and-white-checker-patterned surface, he placed the board on his mahogany and located its pieces. Pawns, knights, bishops, rooks, queens, and kings soon found their rightful spaces.
“It’s been so long since I’ve played,” he said to the empty office. “So long. Perhaps I have lost my expertise.”
Once the game was set and ready for its players, Bernie Madhoof went over to his telegram machine and pounded out a hasty message. Within an hour, his favorite assistant was at his office door—the guest entering the perimeter with a copy of the mansion’s master key—rapping on the oak for permission to enter.
“Come in!”
A fat, short stallion slowly trotted into the office, an envelope in his forehooves. “Youze wanted ta see me, sir?”
“Correct. What are you hiding there?” King Orange asked.
"Aye, sir, dis letta was on the porch fo' youze. From Ponyville, it looks like."
"Bah! Mark it 'Return To Sender,' and throw it back in the mailbox, boy!"
His assistant challenged, "But, sir, it's from Mr. Rich—"
Bernie Madhoof said harshly, "I said, get rid of it! I'll have nothing to do with Dirtville, especially that slimy Filthy Rich. Not since he refused to merge with Orange Enterprises," he added with a growl. "Now, come over here."
The stallion gulped. "Yes, sir. I will dispose of it later."
Tossing the letter aside for the moment, assistant joined master at his station. On the hoof-carved mahogany desk laid a simple, wooden chessboard, pieces intricately designed and cushioned with green felt on their bases. Raising an eyebrow, the assistant asked, “What is dis fo’, sir?”
“It’s a chessboard, nitwit!” barked Madhoof. “Don’t you know how to play?!”
The assistant stammered, “O-o’ c-c-course I do, sir!”
“Good. I’m tired of dice and cards. Too random for me. Too… unbecoming of a stallion of my stature.”
His shining, glistening white teeth exposed, piano keys of Old Scratch’s prized instrument, King Orange declared, “Let’s play chess. I’ll go first.”
He quickly moved a black pawn two spaces forward in front of his queen.
“B-b-but, s-sir,” his assistant objected, “w-white always goes first.”
The most powerful stallion in Manehatten decreed, “Not anymore.”